


White on White

by Puniyo



Series: Chocolatier [9]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Chocolate, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, chantilly cream, crude language, inspired by Ghana, lots of teasing, right amount of puns, which is finally resolved, white sweater of sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-09-07 06:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16848667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: When a simple white sweater (or the lack of pants) is enough to tempt Javier from skipping training...[Sequel added 10-02-2019]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Cleans the dust from the Chocolatier drawer*
> 
> Hello dear readers! This piece was written some time ago, when Yuzu's commercial for Ghana wearing the white sweater (of sin) first appeared. The exact thought that crossed my mind was 'what if Yuzu doesn't wear anything under it since the sweater is so long?' The rest is pretty much self-explanatory. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way reflects the people mentioned.

‘Hey Brian, where is Yuzuru?’

Javier is finishing tying the laces of his worn boots, the blade of his skates still sharp as he likes them, not a knife that cuts the heart of the ice but not blunt so it will get caught on the edges of the amateur skaters and offer him a one-way ticket to the emergency room with a bruised knee cap, a swollen ankle, or both.

‘Didn’t he tell you? He is sick.’ The senior coach gestures the young blond Gogolev for another lap as warm-up before attempting the first quad of the day.

‘Sick? Yuzuru is never sick.’ It’s the first time he steps into the Cricket Club after an entire summer of preparation for ice shows and the rink just feels empty even with all the skaters, their reflections on the mirror and the flags fluttering at the slight breeze of the ventilation fans.

‘Well, he apparently got a cold. He couldn’t scare the virus with those eyes of his. His mother called this morning.’

What a pity, Javier thought, the prospect of practising a quadruple Salchow without the challenge of a young man (tightly) clad in black calling him ‘old’ or ‘rusty’ or simply ‘not perfect’, so that he could chase after him and slap his butt cheeks as punishment or pull him by the hips until they were marked with his fingers, initially red and then in growing shades of purple (which is the standard of a normal training day and those who kept their hands to themselves were obviously not yet part of the family), was just not how he remembered Toronto to be.

He is ready to step on the ice when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

[Yuzu] I’m cold. No complex emojis that he never knew what they meant or one or two Japanese characters. Yuzuru must be really sick.

[Javier] How are you feeling?

[Yuzu] Cold. Very cold.

[Javier] I’m in the club. You’re not here.

[Yuzu] I’m cold.

[Javier] Get warm then.

[Yuzu] You are not here.

[Javier] Where are you?

[Yuzu] Home. Very cold.

[Javier] Make some hot chocolate.

[Yuzu] Javi don’t have any.

[Javier] _Where_ are you?

[Yuzu] Your kitchen.

[Javier] How did you get in?!

[Yuzu] Borrow your key last time.

[Javier] You stole my key?

[Yuzu] _Borrow_.

[Javier] What are you doing in my place?

[Yuzu] Want to see you. Too cold.

[Javier] Wear more clothes.

[Yuzu] Don’t have. No pants.

Javier almost drops his phone on the floor. He knew the little piece of shit was taunting him.

[Javier] Wear mine.

[Yuzu] Want to wear you.

[Javier] _Fuck_.

[Yuzu] That too. Now only sweater.

He swallows dry and sweat collects in the palms of his hands. He can almost see Yuzuru’s smirk reflected on the screen of his electronic device. So that was why the younger man had sent him a video about one of his photoshoots last week. That little fucker.

[Javier] Which sweater?

[Yuzu] You know which _one_.

[Javier] I don’t know what you are talking about.

Oh he does and he almost loses balance just imagining Yuzuru in it, the red scarf and the devilish pout. And no pants, the sweater long enough to cover his toned ass and–

[Yuzu] Jaaaviiiiii. Too cold. Too hard.

[Javier] What?

[Yuzu] You know what.

[Javier] I can’t leave now.

[Yuzu] So sorry. I will invite Jason.

Javier looks around the rink. He spots the stars and stripes of the flag but not the American skater.

[Javier] Don’t you dare.

[Yuzu] He said he likes the sweater a lot.

[Javier] Give me 30 minutes. You’ll pay for this Yuzu.

He walks straight to the locker room without telling Brian. He never took off his boots as quick as now and he makes a mental note to grab some hot cocoa on the supermarket on the way home.

 

 

The first time he grabs the keys, they fall in front of his doorstep. The second time, the main key can barely fit on the lock and he almost breaks it from twisting it too forcefully. It was the longest half an hour on the bus that Javier ever had and he was a patient man. Very _patient_.

Everything looks the same in his house, the magazines on the coffee table, the ashtray next to the TV set, a picture of him, of his Japanese rink mate, of Brian and Tracy and everyone in the club after the Olympics hung in the wall. The little criminal was astute to not leave his place upside down but it left its own version of breadcrumbs to remind him of the way – a pair of green socks, the overly fitting dark Under Armor training pants. And the navy blue briefs discarded on the floor. His throat is suddenly dry and he follows the hints until his own kitchen, where the young man is sitting on his glass top dining table, bare feet dangling back and forth between two chairs, his knees and outer thighs covered with a long white sweater, _yes that sweater_. Yuzuru notices him as he scoops a spoonful of Chantilly cream, diligently white, from a bowl he had taken from the fridge.

‘Javi!’ The mock surprise look on Yuzuru’s face is as fake as the minimally nasal tone he uses to call him. ‘You’re two minutes and 27 seconds late. That is a deduction on the protocol.’ He licks the metallic round utensil slowly, darting his tongue excessively out to just bring a dollop into his mouth.

Javier puts down the paper bag with every possible variety of hot chocolate he could order in the café that both he and the man now sitting on his dinner table loved the best, a little too hasty and some even spills with the covered lids.

‘Where is Jason?’

‘Whipping cream of his own.’ Yuzuru drops the spoon on the bowl, an innocent smile on his face. ‘How was training?’

‘Non-existent thanks to you.’ He raises the black, cotton garment next to the different cups and the younger man chuckles.

‘I believe those are my pants.’

‘You said you didn’t have any.’

‘I don’t.’ Yuzuru opens his legs delicately, inch by inch, in a camera roll of slow motion.

Javier can’t see his manhood from the shadow of the sweater, hiding from his sight.

‘Do you want me to wear them?’

‘No.’ The answer came much faster than he had expected, _fuck it_ , and he positions himself between the inviting inner thighs. The younger man drapes his arms over his shoulders and he places a brief kiss on the inside of the elbow. ‘Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t fuck you right now.’

Yuzuru digs his index finger on the whipped cream and brings the sweetness to Javier’s lips, gently nudging on the lower one. ‘I’m cold.’


	2. A (Chocolate) Sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javier can't really resist the white sweater...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, this is a sequel that was promised but never materialized, but here it is! This Chocolatier series finally has a work that can make justice to the title. But it does no justice to me. I'm feeling shit and this work probably is also written in the same way, so pardon me. I will redeem myself in the future.
> 
> Disclaimer: this is a work of FICTION! No chocolate was harmed in the process.

‘Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t fuck you right now.’

Yuzuru digs his index finger on the whipped cream and brings the sweetness to the Spaniard’s lips, gently nudging on the lower one. ‘I’m cold.’

His hands are cold, almost gelid like an ice cube imbued on his fingertips, Javier notices, as he refuses to open his mouth and indulge himself in tasting the sweet treat. There is a tint of pink on the younger man’s cheeks, a rose blooming on them and the crystalline veil of his eyes are not lying of his frail health.

Flushed, tears falling and scratchy, hoarse voice from crying his name. This is how Javier remembered Yuzuru to be and the sight in front of him almost matched this memory of his. Almost to perfection – sick, vulnerable, clinging to him.

Clinging to his shoulders.

Clinging to his hips.

Clinging to his _pequeño_ Javier, which was everything but little when he penetrated him to the hilt.

He bites Yuzuru’s finger, sinking into the skin, not bothering with the cream. When the Japanese retracts his hand before he is gnawed completely to the bones, Javier pinches the satiny inner thigh, the bruised skin hidden by the sweater, but he can feel the twitch on the muscles and he dives even further, tickling the balls with his nails. He would pluck a feather from Yuzuru’s back when he became a swan and run it on his length if he could, just to watch him writhe in the same manner as he is now, fighting the urge to open his legs further apart but at the same time squeezing Javier away.

How much Yuzuru could endure until he broke down in the flames of his own lust is something the Spaniard swears to himself he will test one day.

The younger man tries to sit to the center of the table but Javier grabs him by his knees, keeping him in place on the edge.

‘That hurts.’

‘Does it?’ His hand returns to the same spot but instead of soothing the skin, he fondles it in the way he knew it was the worst torture.

Yuzuru’s whole body contorts with its own ticklish liability, his laughter echoing through the tiled walls of the kitchen. He almost knocks the spoon and the glass bowl to the floor as he trashes in defense in their childish dominance games, one that none is willing to give up the supremacy. He spreads the cream (lukewarm by now) on Javier’s hair, laughing even louder at the white mess he had just painted, fingers fixing the chestnut strands and running through the scalp.

‘Sick boys should not play around.’ Javier closes his eyes as a dollop of the cream falls to them, fogging his vision.

‘Sick boys want to be treated well.’ He nibs on the earlobe, his tongue on the folds, a most victorious smirk when his partner’s shivers at the mere touch.

‘Don’t I…’, Javier can feel a pair of lips on his temples, tracing down the bridge of his nose before licking the wetness on his eyelids, ‘…always treat you nicely?’ He opens his eyes, their faces almost in full contact, sharing the same oxygen on the minimal gap between their mouths. Their lips touch, a prudish and chaste unity that Yuzuru refuses to give him more when he leans forward.

The leftover taste of vanilla is strong though, as he licks the remnant of cream on his lips. Whether it is Yuzuru that tastes like vanilla or the dairy treat that has Yuzuru in its ingredients he knows not.

‘Javi is always mean.’ The younger man repeats the same tactic, approaching Javier’s lips but he retreats at the last moment when the other man tips for it.

‘Who is the mean one here?’ Oh, the impertinent little fucker. ‘I even brought you medicine.’

‘Should I drink from you?’

The impossibly long eyelashes and the smug quirk of the corners of his mouth is everything but innocent, Javier knows that, the prospect of having that cockiness engulfing him sending him a jolt straight down to the confined manhood. He grabs one of the cups already forgotten on the table with hot chocolate that he had brought on his way home and he hands it to the Japanese skater.

‘Drink _this_ while it’s still hot.’ Yuzuru’s legs were really cold and it is a physiological shiver the one he has when there is a sudden draft of air in the badly closed window.

‘Javi is _really_ mean.’ He takes the warm paper cup, smelling the contents before drinking.

The Spaniard notices how Yuzuru is extra careful when removing the tiny lid opening and the frown on his face is comical and attractive at the same time, the way the tiny wrinkles converge in his forehead or the protrusions on his cheeks as his tongue dances around his teeth.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Too sweet.’

‘Let me try it.’ Javier grabs Yuzuru by the chin and pulls him down for a kiss, the first surrender as the younger man can’t fall back and it’s more than just the chocolate that he tastes. It’s the vanilla again and the muffled mocked protest as he pitches his tongue to the palate, forgetting about the warm drink on the opiate flavor of their rising pleasure.

‘White chocolate. It’s really too sweet.’

‘I want another one.’ Yuzuru puts down the cup, still carefully handling the wave like motion of the liquid, placing it far, far away from him.

‘What?’ He gestures at the other options and finally points to himself.

The younger man points at another cup as he kisses Javier, a provoking bite on the fleshy lower lip. ‘ _Chocolate_.’

The second attempt still earns a grimace though it is less objectionable. ‘Milk chocolate with hazelnut. Still too sweet.’ On a careless knock over their elbows as the Spaniard tries to have a taste, the lid flips open and the brown (this time) concoction almost spills over to the sweater.

‘Shit.’

Javier finds it amusing the way Yuzuru tries to clean the globule of chocolate by wiping it with the back of his hand, smudging it even further to a larger circle around the patterned hem.

‘Shit.’

‘What is the problem?’

‘Can’t dirty this. It’s not mine.’

‘Not yours?’

‘Not mine.’

‘You stole it from Ghana?’

‘ _Borrow_ it.’

It’s very subtle the sudden change in Javier’s voice. ‘You _borrowed_ it from Ghana’, the suave piquancy of a triumph, ‘that is why you cannot spoil it.’

‘Please.’

‘Don’t I always treat you nicely?’, the Spaniard’s fingertip tiptoes from the skirt of the white garment to the collar, ‘but what can we do if you cannot _dirty_ it?’ The reins of bold audacity have never felt better.

‘Take it off.’ Yuzuru whispers as he extends his arms up to the ceiling. ‘Take everything off.’

Javier shakes his head leisurely, a ticking second a time. ‘No. Aren’t you cold?’ He randomly chooses another cup from the selection he had brought and he almost chokes as the tangy ginger hits his taste buds. ‘Aren’t you sick?’

‘Yes.’ The young man opens his legs further apart. ‘Please take care of me.’

‘My poor Yuzuru.’ Javier lowers himself, to his knees as he places dainty kisses, feeble caresses on his partner’s bare foot, toe by toe, on the shins, that quickly turn into harmless, capricious bites on the cold skin of the inner thighs, close but not yet there. ‘It’s time for medicine.’

The Spaniard takes a mouthful of the chocolate, still warm, and he feeds it to Yuzuru’s manhood, the drink coating the erection with the spice, a trail leaking down to his balls and dripping from Javier’s chin. The young man hisses at the peppery sting on his sex and even more when the skillful tongue runs along his length, the underside, and sucking at his tip, thirsty for the cocoa mixed with his precum. ‘More.’ He buries his hands on the scalp, pulling the nut-brown hair (with cream) to take him deeper, but Javier doesn’t obey. He teases instead, releasing him and kissing the slit, purposely clumsy.

‘I hate you, mean Javi.’

‘Oh, I _love_ you, my Yuzuru.’ Javier rises, drawing in his rink mate so their lips meet with a crushing force in a fierce clash of egos, or what is left of them. The kiss is sloppy, Yuzuru desperately seeking to taste himself in the older man (‘more, give me more’), in the saliva and the stifled moans.

The shackles of their desire have the Spaniard imprisoned and he is the first one to nod, to compel to the decree of his executioner. ‘Lie down.’ He observes the show, the sluggish feline crawl, until Yuzuru’s back is on the table, a sacrifice offered for his worship. Javier dips his fingers in the nearest cup and he brings them to his partner, who nurses the digits until the knuckles with the utmost hunger.

‘Dark chocolate?’

The young man shakes his head. ‘Strawberry and…’, he loses his speech when the same fake scent enters him as Javier pushes a finger inside.

‘And?’ He adds another one when there is no answer, delighting in the shivers he is provoking in Yuzuru, a trembling kitten at his mercy.

‘And–’, his manhood is painfully erect, rubbing against his sweater, ‘and mint. It tastes of you. Hurry up.’

Javier doesn’t know why he has condoms in the cutlery drawer of his dining table and he doesn’t plan to solve this enigma but he thanks himself mentally for how handy they are and he quickly rips open a package (one of the many that didn’t fall to the ground) with his teeth and slides one on his cock. It takes a few tries though (and a series of ‘fuck’ and even worse incoherent Spanish expletives), with one hand scissoring the young man and the other shaking from anticipation while untying the strings of his sport pants and yanking his briefs down.

‘Rusty?’ Yuzuru chuckles as he waits (impatiently). ‘Lack of practice is bad, Javi.’

‘Are we an expert now?’ He retrieves his hand and positions right at the pucker.

‘More than Javi. More–’

The Spaniard thrusts forward, plunging into the young man, burying completely in a single movement. They both cry at the breach of the tightness, of the ring of muscles contracting around the burning flesh and the sensation of satisfying fullness. The impulsion on the table makes one of the cups topple and the hot chocolate stains the sleeve of the sweater.

‘Need more training.’ Yuzuru tries to stabilize his erratic breathing as he smirks and bites his lower lip from the surge of pleasure through his veins. ‘More, Javi, more.’

‘So demanding.’ Javier lifts the young man, who holds his shoulders with surprise (and a few whimpers from the added pressure with the change of positions), as he drags them both to sit on the floor, Yuzuru straddling him.

‘What–’

‘Do me the way you want.’ He brushes away the damp, dark strands on his partner’s forehead so he can properly stare at his own libido reflected in the obsidian irises. ‘Show me how you want me to fuck you.’

The pace is reluctantly lazy as Yuzuru propels on his knees and allows gravity to tow him down on the Spaniard’s manhood, inch by inch. The tiles of the floor are cold but the heat of both their passion threatens to set them aflame. The young man’s neck is glistening with sweat, the salty drops gliding past his Adam’s apple and setting on his moles and the collarbone notch. He folds the hems of the sweater up as he settles on Javier’s lap but the Spaniard grabs both his wrists immediately, halting the stripping parade.

‘Isn’t it nice, this rabbit’s fur?’ He grinds both their navels, Yuzuru’s erection kneading against the prickling softness, the extra friction both torturous and stimulating.

‘It will–’, a sharp cry escapes his lips as Javier brings their joined hands to where the tip bulges, ‘dirty.’

‘Here,’ the Spaniard picks up one of the forgotten condoms, taunting his partner with a grin as he applies the red protection, almost glowing with the lubricant gel, on Yuzuru’s swollen length, ‘beautiful, _cariño_. And it matches your scarf.’ He slaps the wool covered buttocks, urging the young man to resume his rhythm. ‘You should have brought it too, so I could tie you. Or gag you. Or both.’

Flushed cheeks, (‘mean Javi’), teary eyes (‘who was the one who called me during training?’), penetrating deeper, (‘nymphomaniac’), and deeper, (‘your English app is quite useful’), hips held at the perfect angle for the magic spot, (‘harder’), a bite on the nipple through the sweater, (‘do you want to come?’), racing strokes on his sensitive sex, (‘Yes’), fastened grip on the base, (‘beg me’), lips shut tight in a hazy smirk, (‘…’), an ardent kiss of their mouths, (‘then I beg you Yuzu, let me come’).

Both skaters chase their climax at the same time, pleasure erupting from their manhood and overflowing to their arched backs and tangled limbs. The guttural moans from the tightness of their fused bodies have them gasping for their names, for air, for chocolate. The remnants of Yuzuru’s semen coat Javier’s fingers as he removes the colored condom, and he wipes the back of his hand on the sweater, like how a beast marks his territory.

‘White on white.’ There is no aquarelle combination more beautiful than this one.

The young man collapses onto Javier, shoulders on shoulders, his face hidden on the crook of the Spaniard’s neck, slightly breathless. His forehead melts with a feverish wildfire and he is shuddering, shivering from the joyride of their orgasm and from his (true) cold.

It is a sight that enchants Javier and almost threatens to make him hard (again) in the next instant.

‘Say Yuzuru,’ he mentally expels the impending arousal through his hazelnut curls as he hugs his stubborn, sex-driven kitten, gently caressing the exposed thighs in smooth circles, ‘when will you film the next Ghana commercial?’

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I don't know if this plot will ever be continued. Maybe I'm just not in the right mood. One day, who knows?


End file.
